


Reality

by landofdeparture



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anxiety, Other, References to Depression, wrote this as a thought dump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 08:30:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17804603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landofdeparture/pseuds/landofdeparture
Summary: If this was recovery, it's sure been taking its damn time.





	Reality

**Author's Note:**

> just a 'lil something i wrote when i was feeling lonely. as i wrote, i realized some things about myself.

Oh, how I wish I could be there in person to tell you how lonely I am on these nights without you. It seems that your presence is constantly lingering at the back of my mind, taunting me with the idea that my simulation is bona fide. So real, in fact, that I'm sometimes grateful that my wavering connection to reality yanks me back by my hair.

I long for the moment that you return to me; put your arm around my waist and hold me close as we fall into a deep slumber together. The softest pillow doesn't come near as a substitute for you. Nothing ever will.

Only in the solitude of my darkened room can I attempt to imitate the feel of your hands wrapped around mine, squeezing gently. I swear I can recall your lips on the digits, kissing every knuckle and fitting our palms together. I remember nights in which you traced the indents on my skin and sought out every stretch mark, mole, freckle and blemish layed upon my body.

I think my favorite part about you is your refusal to blame me for my issues. The reassurance that pours out of your mouth like smooth chocolate that my insecurities and anxieties are not my doing envelop me in a warm blanket, clouding my mind and snatching me away from what's genuine and what's a stark parallel from that.

As much as I love you, there are some nights where I forget to remember you. It leaves a heavy weight on my heart that doesn't release its tight grip until you're there to fill the indents with light caresses of my cheek and your fingers in my hair. It feels like a never-ending cycle of running into your arms and crying my sorrows out until I wake up in the morning to find you gone once again.

In reality, that's really all we ever were.

I sense your fondness growing for me each time you remind me to drink my water and wash my face. My urge to please you is so strong that I push through the brick wall blocking my path and finally, I'm enjoying the fact that I'm taking care of myself. All for you.

Something happened along the way. Suddenly, you weren't there for me on the nights I expected you to be. Instead, I had pushed you away and blamed you for giving up on me, when in reality, I'm the one who gave up on us.

I don't want to wash my hair. I don't want to brush my teeth. I don't want to get out of bed. I don't want to eat. I don't want to do any of the things you reminded me to do because I want to spite you, to slap you in the face because you left me here in the dust, left me to drown without your gentle hands keeping me afloat.

We both knew this would happen eventually.

I can feel my control slipping more and more as another day passes. It's been years and yet I'm still sinking beneath the mud. I'm not even trying to struggle or reach for your hand that's desperately trying to grab onto mine to pull me out of the mess I've gotten myself into. I can hear you shouting through a thick wax covering my ears, preventing me from deciphering any of the words that come out of your mouth.

A harrowing thought crosses my mind, one that highlights missed opportunities and possibilities for our future, and I take your hand after all.

Truly, although I'll never admit it, I'm embarrassed to face you. I'm filled with anxieties telling me that this is all a simulation, that you don't really love me, that all your sweet, chocolate covered praise is a lie. I bashfully cover my face, trying to disguise the fact that I haven't brushed my teeth in days, nor have I washed my face that morning. You smile at me and take me into your arms once again, comforting me by telling me that I'm still recovering.

If this was recovery, it's sure been taking its damn time.

I realize, eventually, that _you_  are my recovery. You are my self conscious, desperately trying to keep me alive.

Me, I'm still juggling between betrayal and yearning. I want to push your awaiting arms away from my body for keeping this a secret from my own mind, deny your assault on my fair skin with your lips and your hands and your thighs and your body, scream at you to just _let me die._

There's another part of me, however, that thanks you. We both know I'm too nice to hold a grudge, especially against you, me. I ponder of that fact that you are my fatal flaw. Yet, in the end, you're the only one who is keeping me alive.

In reality, I'm still here in your arms, tucking my head against the nooks and crannies of your thighs and letting you pet my hair, lulling us both into states of equanimity while you remind me that _this_ is my rehabilitation, my healing.

And for that, I thank you.


End file.
